Where Did All The Light Go?
by iLoveMeSomeCaptainAmerica
Summary: She thought that having two rivaling parents was bad. She thought that she could never be happy. She thought that she'd rather be dead. She thought that life couldn't get any worse—that is until the world gets unplugged. Literally. Read full summary inside. AU. Clace.
1. Prologue

Even fully submerged beneath the now-cold bathwater, they were loud. I didn't exactly need to hear every word that they spit back and forth at each other to know exactly what was being said; they were fighting. They were always fighting. About him drinking. About her sleeping with his best friend. About him getting fired. About her stealing money from his wallet. About him going to court. Again. About my brother. About me — though, that one was still hard to believe, even if it had become a common got-to for my mom whenever she needed to get back at my dad, or for whenever my dad needed to get back at my mom and bringing up her 'worthlessness' just wasn't enough.

Neither of my parents acknowledged me unless they had gone too many weeks, days, hours, _seconds_ without having something to fight about.

I was the rope in their battle of tug-of-war, only they had forgotten the real reason as to why they needed me. They used me. Not me the person, but me the leverage. The difference between winning and losing. The last rock needed to upset the balance, whether it be in her favor or his. The final stroke to finish a masterpiece first. I wasn't their first pick, I wasn't even their second or third or fourth; I was just the deal-breaker, without a face to go along with the name.

Did they even know I lived right across the hall from them? Did they know that I was failing all of my classes? Do you know how hard it is to fail _all_ of your classes? Did they see anything anymore?

_I'm right here, Mom! Am I still your little girl, Dad?_

Please. Just _look_ at me. _Please._

My palm smacked against the side of the tub, the muddled aftermath reaching my ears slowly, quietly, pleasantly. All of the logic I had left was desperate and grasping for air, my deteriorated compassion clinging onto that last speck of hope, onto my faded and dying will to keep surviving. My heart was beating. I was thinking clearly. I still wanted to live, didn't I? Not really, was my honest answer. What was there to really live for anymore? I didn't have a future. My past no longer brought a smile to my face. The present was a waking and persistent nightmare. It was a struggle, truly, to have to get up day after day and no longer smell pancakes burning on the griddle, to no longer see the passion in my mother's eyes — she just stared through me, it seemed. I was invisible — and to no longer hear my father greet me, spatula in hand, dressed all professional-like in his monkey suit, whenever I'd walk into the kitchen; "Good morning princess, how'd you sleep?" is what he'd always use say.

I used to be my mother's muse, my father's reason to get up early every Sunday to watch cartoons. I used to be important. I used to be the perfect student. The perfect daughter. The perfect friend. I used to be perfect — or, at least that's what I tell myself now. I was never perfect, but I'd been perfect in the sense that I'd had no problems. I'd been a free bird and, while I'd still had the chance, I should've just spread my wings. I shouldn't have taken everything for granted. I shouldn't have wished for my mom to leave me alone whenever I'd had boy-drama. I shouldn't have been embarrassed when she'd made a big deal about me getting my period for the first time. I shouldn't have gotten mad at my father whenever he'd use to force me to drink a full glass of milk every night before I went to sleep. I shouldn't have yelled at him for being late to parent-teacher conferences.

Because now he never shows up.

Because now she doesn't care.

Because now he doesn't say a word to me.

Because now she never makes me cookies as an after-school treat.

I'd once had everything—I'd had _so_ much. A loving dad and an overly-involved mother, a happy home, food in the fridge, family-game-night, money to go to the movies with my friends, no interrogations from my school counselor asking where I got a bruise from. _Everything_. And I shouldn't have let my nerves, my lack of self-confidence, my worries, my stupid and ridiculous and annoying ignorance — I shouldn't have let the _me_ I used to be, the pretty redheaded girl with her mother's eyes and father's cheekbones, keep myself from flying.  
Because now...my wings are clipped.

Because now I have a can of soda for breakfast — if I'm lucky.

Because now I walk home in the snow.

Because now I don't have any friends./p

Because now I'm all alone.

And now...I'm lost.

* * *

I sit up, my mouth open wide, my skin coated with goosebumps, throat dry and greedy for air. Not today. There's always tomorrow. "...Shut up would you! For just five seconds, please!" "Don't you dare walk away from me you filthy, lying, cheating, worthless excuse for a man!" "Oh _I'm_ worthless? _I'm_ worthless! Who, who-who is the one keeping this family going—?" "You're the reason this family isn't a family anymore! Keeping this family going? HA!"

Their accusations, their shouting, their yelling, their _voices_ were one in the same.

"You were supposed to pick her up from school!" my mother — I think — screamed.

"I can't be in two places at once, Jocelyn! While you were here, sitting on your ass, doing your nails, you could've easily—"

"With _what_? You take the car — the only car — every single day! And leave me here! And I don't sit on my ass all day doing nothing — I clean and pay the bills and do every fucking thing in my power to keep this place out of the bank's eye! We're one late payment away from losing everythi—"

"We've already lost everything! There's _nothing more_ to lose!"

I released the bath-plug with long, pruned fingers, a loud clung bouncing off the linoleum as the soapy water started to drain, leaving me even more naked, even more exposed. When I'd first gotten into the tub, it had already been chilling and unpleasant —we didn't have any hot water — and, I know, most people would prefer a cold shower over a cold bath; they'd think me crazy if word got out that I just sat in an ice-cold bath for hours and hours every single night. Even I didn't know why I did what I did. It seemed as if once I got in, I'd keep telling myself 'two more minutes, and then I'll get out,' but that became a listless mantra. Showers took away from my thinking, I supposed. Baths were calm and quiet.

Steady.

"That's not true!" my mother shouted back.

"Oh, it's not?" my father laughed cruelly. "Our kids _hate_ u. That good-for-nothing girl upstairs can't even be in the same room with me for more than two minutes! Our son left because he couldn't handle living here anymore! I know for a fact that once she's old enough, our daughter's going to leave too — I'm surprised she hasn't yet. We're horrible parents. We're horrible people—!"

"Shut up!"

"Why should I? It's not like I'm telling you anything you don't already know. Look inside the fridge—" there was a loud bang as the door to the fridge, I assumed, bounced aggressively against its neighboring cabinets "—What do you see? _Nothing_. There's no fucking food. And we've sold nearly all of our furniture! We're out of hot water _again_, this house is freezing and it's winter and we don't have the money to do anything about it! We're broke, Jocelyn! We've already lost everything and we've dug ourselves into this deep, dark hole that we're never getting out of!"

I got to my feet as I heard the porch-door swing open, then slam shut. Mom was probably going to smoke a cigarette. At least that's what she usually did after a big blow-up, even if it was negative-something-degrees outside. She'd sit on the top porch step, bundled up in one of her fake-leather jackets, and cry—more like ball her eyes out — ignorant of our curious neighbors. In between sobs, she'd inhale her cancer stick heavily, hold her breath for as long as she could, then release a large, black puff of smoke.

She never used to smoke when I was little./p

I wrapped myself in a small, grubby towel splotched with old bleach marks and marred with frayed ends. My feet against the cool tile of the bathroom floor prickled, igniting another wave of goosebumps up and down my legs; it was even colder without the protection of the water. I took a small step forward and stood in front of a mirror. It was cracked near the top left corner and the edges were growing black, but, give or take, it was still a mirror. I was thin. _Very _thin and I was pale, and freckly around my nose. Albeit and ironically enough, I was one of the few people that was worth a second glance. Then again, it's hard to avoid attention when you have fire-engine-red hair.

After running a brush through my dampened main and taking care of my teeth with a brittle toothbrush, I opened the door and stepped into the hallway with the intent to return to my room. However, once the bitter air hit me, I had come face-to-chest with a large wall of human flesh. I looked up slowly to meet my father's cold, gray eyes. His hands locked around my elbows to hold me in place, while mine clutched at the towel, trying to keep it up. I hadn't expected him to retreat upstairs; after a fight with my mom, he'd usually take the car and leave for a couple hours, sometimes for the rest of the night. I was surprised he hadn't left permanently by now.

I cowered under his gaze, beyond uncomfortable, but for the wrong reason: It didn't matter that I was standing in no more than a towel before him. It didn't matter to me. What mattered was that he was _looking_ at me. He was giving me what I craved most, even if it wasn't much by any standards. Even if we only ran into each other by coincidence and he hadn't intentionally gone out of his way to visit with his one and only daughter. Even if I hadn't been given an ounce of his devotion in seemingly ever and it was unusual and scary and weird. We were standing so close. He could easily hug me — if he wanted me to. He could. _Hi, Daddy_, I wanted to say, though it remained silent until "You were in the bathroom for a long time" escaped past his lips.

I nodded, unable to find my voice.

"Your mom left for the evening," he told me.

I focused on my feet, trying to familiarize myself with what it felt like to hear his voice. Not his shouting-voice or his 'I'm gonna kill you' voice. Just his voice. He was talking to me. He was making a real effort — maybe he'd talk to me tomorrow too, on his own.

"How's, um, school going?"

I hardly shrugged. I didn't even know how to react around him anymore.

His hold on me ceased and then...he was gone, muttering something incoherent and angry under his before I could even think about reaching out to him, to beg him to stay, to keep trying. He was gone. _Dad! _I glanced down at myself, then at my parents' bedroom door closing, then at a dent in the drywall prominent in my sight directly across from where I stood. I retreated back inside the bathroom and went to the medicine cabinet hanging above the toilet, barely attached to its hinges.

I grabbed the first bottle of pills I could find and sank to the ground.

* * *

**While keeping some of you guys who've read some of my other stories waiting, I got inspiration to start this story. And no, this will not be all depressing and sad for the entire story. Not even close. There will be a real plot line and some actual character development in this one. So basically I'm thinking that the entire world just loses its electricity and out of the blue, as if things couldn't get worse, unknown start appearing and raising havoc, and, well, it'll just be complete madness.**

**What do you guys think?**

**I'm still totally 100% invested in my other stories, but inspiration hits when inspiration hits!**

**Please review your thoughts and give me feedback on the prologue!**

**Until next time, peace.**


	2. Thanks Giving

I couldn't go through with it. I was close, closer than I had ever been to ending my life before, but, just like all the other times, my mind wouldn't let me. It was such a selfish bastard. Always dictating my every move, giving me the suicidal thoughts to begin with and not letting me act on it, never allowing me to look on the bright side of things; there was only darkness as far as I was concerned. And nothing would change that—so, what was even the point?

If my own _body _was against breathing, _what was the point_?

I wasn't happy.

I never even smiled anymore.

I used to love to draw and now...well, all my sketchbooks were either ashes in the fireplace, thrown away in the dumpsters behind school, or just littering random sidewalks; after things blew up at home for the first time, so did I. I figured that if I couldn't be happy, there was no reason to _try _to be happy, so I got rid of all the posters that used to hang around my bedroom, I bit my perfectly shaped fingernails down to the nub, I traded in my colorful tees for all new attire more fitting to how I felt, and I stopped caring about my appearance. No more makeup. No more taking hours every morning to straighten my hair. No more pink-bubblegum lip gloss.

I literally woke up, brushed my teeth, brushed my hair if I felt up to it, and then ate breakfast—if we had any—or, better put, drank half a soda and saved the rest for later that night.

It was a boring, monotonous, miserable life.

And yet, here I am the morning after Thanks Giving. Still breathing.

Snow Shoe Lane was packed with cars all lining the street, just a huge, never-ending line of metallic reds, blues, blacks, yellows, whites, oranges, greens, and grays. There was even a car parked outside _our _house—not because the owner of said car was visiting us, but because there was no room across the street at old Miss Faville's. He'd of course asked my father first if it was all right with him before going through with it; he'd hurriedly rang the doorbell and must've stood on our front porch for about five minutes before someone (my dad) finally decided to see who it was. He was persistent, I'll give him that, what with his family waiting impatiently back at the car. Then again, he couldn't exactly park in bundy land now could he?

The man had told my father his name was Robert—I'd heard their little encounter all the way from inside my room, sprawled out across my bed—and, I suppose, he thought it was necessary to explain why, what, when, where, how, and who. Even if I hadn't exactly been present to witness it, I'm sure my father's face had been absolutely priceless. Like he really cared if the man—Robert—parked outside our house or even inside our garage. He was probably just waiting to go back to the couch in the living room and return to his football game.

"You see sir—I'm sure you understand—I'm visiting my mother-in-law, Miss Faville—do you know her?— with my family—they're all in the car right now as we speak. My kids are really excited to see their grandma," Robert had rambled, seemingly nervous. Hell, _I_'d be nervous if I wasn't, well, my father's daughter; he had these cold eyes, ever present angry expression, the whole 'I'll tear you to shreds' aura, _and_ he wore combat boots that did nothing to help anyone's fear of getting their ass kicked. Plus, not to mention, the guy was _huge_. "And well, you see, there's just...not a lot of space for us to park—"

"I don't mind," my father had told him curtly. Then the door had slammed shut. End of conversation.

Miss Faville was an older lady that had lived across the street from our house for as long as I can remember. When I was little, she used to invite me inside her house for cookies and lemonade in the summer and hot chocolate and peppermint brownies in the winter. She was _always _cooking something, which is why her husband probably died a few years back. You see, he'd had diabetes and Miss Faville's rich, hardy, home-cooked meals weren't exactly diabetes-friendly. When Mr. Faville had passed away, I had visited Miss Faville every day after school and she'd invited my family over for dinner quite often. However, ever since Mom and Dad decided to start World War III, I not only lost touch with her, but with everyone I once knew.

To be completely honest, I had _never_, not once, seen Miss Faville's daughter that she used to talk about so much. Mayrse, I think, was her name. Miss Faville always showed me pictures of her four grandchildren, though I can't remember any of their names or even what they look like from their school pictures she got every year. She'd love to talk about them; 'Mayrse married a good man. He's very nice, but he's kind of a pansy if I do say so myself', 'Mayrse used to play with this doll as a little girl. She'd _sleep _with it every single night', 'Mayrse used to _love _my brownies. Do _you_ like them?', 'This here is a picture of Mayrse as a teenager. Isn't she just beautiful? Her little girl looks just like her. Isn't it funny how that works out?', and so on and so forth.

While Miss F and her family probably enjoyed a massive stuffed turkey, garlic mashed potatoes, cranberry sauce, and five pounds of chocolate cake, and the rest of Snow Shoe Lane feasted like kings and queens, my little party of three remained at opposite corners of the house. I'd had leftover pasta and, well, I'd sat at the dinner table all by myself, wondering if I'd even get to see my parents that night (and, in the end, I never did). It truly was a happy Thanks Giving. Ha.

I don't know what inspired me to even get out of bed this morning. Usually when I didn't have school, I'd just combine day and night together and go on a sleeping marathon; today, however, I'd gotten up around ten, put on some sweats and a grubby t-shirt that was three sizes too big, and went through with washing my face and brushing my teeth and hair. I was being pretty productive compared to me on a normal day, especially since I didn't have any motivation whatsoever—maybe I'd die looking pretty. Maybe today was going to be the last day.

Maybe.

Hopefully.

Do I sound depressing? I think so.

I gazed up at my ceiling, my bony hands entwined across my flatter-than-healthy stomach, my mind in a state of nostalgia. _God, I'm such a downer. _Am I really this pathetic? Yes. My weight was dwindling, my appearance was deteriorating, my thoughts were darkening—I was getting more and more lost and I didn't even have my parents to help me find my way again. They didn't even notice how skinny I'd gotten, or, if they did, they just didn't care to comment on it. Then again, my mother was also becoming scary-thin and all of her once beautiful red hair was graying. All of her vitality had just drained out of her. I think our situation was affecting her even more than it was affecting me.

I was wallowing in self pity, not caring to do anything about it, and she...Well, she was smoking away her porcelain skin, dulling her green eyes, and fighting the life out of her. She was even more hopeless than I was—and that's saying a lot. Has _she_ tried committing suicide before? Has she gotten closer than me? Did she miss her daughter as much as I missed my mother?

_Ding. Dong. _

I sat up, furrowing my brows; who the hell wanted to ring _our _doorbell?

I waited a couple of moments for someone to get the door before remembering that my mother was still passed out in her room and my dad had left early this morning, having yet to return home. _He probably left you for good. _Very slowly, I rose to my feet, and, step by step, opened my bedroom door, strided the length of the hallway, and descended the staircase.

I wasn't even sure why I was actually going to bother with answering the door. In the back of my head I was almost convinced that it was a girl scout trying to sell cookies or a religious dude handing out bibles—Thanks Giving was a good time to do that— and yet, with nothing else for me to do, I decided to confirm the inevitable with no reasoning whatsoever but, perhaps, to humor myself. Who knows, it could be the Grim Reaper...

_Ding. Dong. Ding. Dong. Ding. Dong. Ding. Ding. Ding. _

"Stop it Max! They're probably not even home." Whoever was on the other side of the door's voice was muffled, but I could tell that it was definitely a guy. You'd think that a girl that secluded herself in her bedroom for the majority of her life would be afraid, but you have to remember that I did go to school still and I saw other girls, boys, and people in between that were either too flamboyant to tell the difference or so stoned that that they kept their faces hidden beneath a hood all the time. I still talked to people—not willingly or happily—but if someone asked me for a pencil, I'd give him a damn pencil, even if it was my only one, just to get him off of my case. It's not like I was all rainbows and butterflies when I did so either, in fact, I was pretty bitchy and would give whoever dared try to open their mouth with me in their presence a look that told them to get lost. Most people got the hint, but there were still some idiots here and there.

I heard the unexpected visitors start to retreat as I began unlocking the lock.

"Wait! I think someone's opening the door!" a little voice exclaimed.

Sure enough, I opened the door. Instead of a loser out of college with a pepperoni face, standing before me was easily the most handsome boy I'd ever seen. He was so handsome—oh, who was I kidding? He was so _hot_—that I completely forgot he wasn't alone, that just a moment ago I'd heard a kid's voice that there was no way in hell belonged to the six-foot, all lean muscle, Brad Pitt-defying god. He wasn't your 'normal' hot guy, per se; not blue eyed, Barbie-boyfriend material. He instead—and in my opinion, much more interestingly—had golden hair hidden underneath a beanie, wore a heavy looking jacket that you'd normally see a skater-boy wearing, had almost bronzed skin that was stark in contrast to the dreary atmosphere behind him, and oddly colored eyes that seemed a shade or to darker than his hair. He almost looked like he belonged on a billboard or something to advertise Macey's new winter line of clothing.

It never took this long for me to take in someone else's appearance—and he himself seemed to be struggling to take in mine as well, but for completely different reasons, I'm sure. I was pretty, I guess, or I could be if I tried a little harder, but regardless I had large, green eyes, The Little Mermaid's hair, and, oh yeah, _I _looked like I belonged on a billboard, too—just one that advertised something along the lines of 'Feed America's Children' or 'What Not To Wear'. In short, I probably looked pretty damn scary and roughed up. _  
_

"Hi," the golden dude breathed, snapping himself out of whatever daze he'd been in. I already knew what he was thinking: I just need to get out of here as fast as possible and maybe the walking skeleton won't hurt me. He seemed more than capable of taking care of himself, though; his heavy attire did _nothing _to hide his excellent physique and he had to be at least eighteen. Surely I couldn't be _that _terrifying.

I didn't respond, simply nodded once in acknowledgment.

He laughed airily, rubbing the back of his neck. "You-I...Um..."

"Jace!" Ah, so this washed-up-from-the-shore hottie _wasn't _alone. Distantly recognizing golden dude's name was Jace, I looked down slightly to see the source of the little, angry squeak. I was met with a tiny face, huge, blue eyes behind Harry Potter's glasses, a toothless smile, and knobby knees. All in all, Jace's sidekick was adorable—and packed a big punch for his size: "Are you gonna ask her or not?"

Jace peered down at the little boy with a harsh look before looking back at me with a nervous smile. "Sorry for _him_—he can be a little rude some times—"

The little boy groaned, crossing his skinny arms over his chest and looking me straight in the eye. "And _he _can be a little annoying."

I found myself laughing for the first time, in what, an entire year? I almost forgot I was capable of it and was so shocked at first that I almost didn't distinguish that the tinkling giggles were coming from _me_. My first thought had been something along the lines of 'the hot guy has the girliest laugh _ever__'_, and then, once I came to my senses, I had to cover up my abnormal reaction; laughing _was _a normal, human thing to do. Even if I didn't do it often didn't mean I couldn't do it ever.

Jace must've deemed my display to be ordinary, though, even for someone who was clearly depressed and Halloween-ready, because he smiled and placed a hand on little-dude's shoulder. "This is my little brother, Max."

I waved down at Max, finding the name to be fitting for some reason.

"Grandma was right," Max said to Jace, jabbing his thumb in my direction. "She's a babe."

My cheeks set fire and my eyes widened. I was mortified—and evidently so was Jace. He was quick to replace his hand on his brother's shoulder to his brother's mouth instead, all while laughing nervously and straining his lips. "Excuse Max, if you would," Jace breathed, muffling whatever it was Max was trying to say. "He's only nine. And you know how nine-year-olds can be... _Very _outspoken."

"Hmm," I nodded, managing a half-smile.

Jace was suddenly pulling his hand away in disgust and looking down at Max in shock. "You just _licked _my hand! What are you? A dog?"

"You asked for it," Max said smartly, putting his hands on his hips. "You know I hate when you do that—"

"Well I wouldn't have to do it if you'd just keep your mouth shut."

Max stuck his tongue out at Jace angrily, falling back into silence.

I remember when I used to find displays of sibling banter and rivalries amusing. Now, I couldn't even get enjoyment out of it and was unable to do anything but watch with dead eyes. I missed _my _brother and seeing two boys that were completely ignorant to how fortunate they were, just spitting fire back and forth at each other, did nothing but make me more bitter.

"_Anyways_," Jace acknowledged me, an apologetic smile gracing his smooth features. "We're sorry for bothering you, but Max insisted that we play catch and his throws are always wild cards...And the ball somehow landed in your back yard."

I simply nodded, trying to seem friendly and understanding—why the hell did the ball have to land in _my _backyard?—before motioning the two brothers inside. I would've just gotten the ball for myself, but then I'd reminded myself that I'd have to get shoes on and my shoes were _all _the way upstairs; a little detour inside my house, despite all of the rumors that spread around town about it, wouldn't kill anyone. Hopefully.

Whereas Jace was hesitant and seemingly a little surprised at my offer, Max was already heading towards my kitchen's sliding glass doors with determination branded in his eyes. I shut the door behind Jace and he allowed me to lead the way behind his brother—who was currently scoping out my backyard, through the dead grass and all, on a mission to find his stupid ball. "I really am sorry about him," Jace told me.

I shrugged. "It's no problem."

I wasn't in the mood to have a conversation, not even one with a hot guy, so I kept my lips sealed and hoped Jace wasn't in the mood to have one either. Ha. Yeah right. "I'm not sure if you know me," Jace said, trying to meet my gaze currently focused at my feet. "Max and I, along with our sister and other brother, are visiting our grandma. She's your neighbor—Miss Faville."

"I know her," I said shortly, giving him the benefit of actually looking at him as I said it.

Jace nodded, unsure of what to say next. "So...How do you know her?"

I shrugged.

He started taping his hands on his thighs annoyingly in a questionable attempt to ease the awkwardness. "I like your shirt," he tried.

I looked down at my plain black tee and then raised my eyebrows back up at him.

"Sometimes less is better," he laughed, cowering under my calculative and unrelenting scrutiny. I knew I was being unfair to him—I'd barely just met the kid—but I didn't do nice or friendly. Odds were I was never going to see him again, and, even if I did, it's not like I was going to be a different person. Talking, as you might have already noticed, wasn't my strong point. Nor was being charismatic, welcoming, hospitable, or open. I didn't give a damn what Jace thought of me. Not a single damn. Being pretty didn't work in anyone's favor for the likes of me.

"Where'd you get it?" he asked.

I had to refrain from rolling my eyes. "I don't know. Dad's closet."

"So..." he trailed off.

I didn't bother to engage, hoping he'd just drop it.

"Do you um—?"

"Found it!" Max exclaimed, reentering the kitchen holding a small, red, shiny ball. _Finally. _I watched as he shut the backdoor behind him before approaching us, smiling toothily. "It took me _forever_." _I'll say._

"Well, let's get out of her—" Jace motioned to me, furrowing his brows. "Um, I'm sorry, I didn't catch you name..."

"Clary," I said, crossing my arms over my chest.

He smiled. "Let's get out of Clary's hair."

Thank the Lord.

I walked the duo towards the front door, trying not to groan at how slow they were walking. _Just leave already. Finally_, after turning a five second walk into a nuisance, Max and Jace were stepping through the threshold between me and total isolation, turning around slightly to wave goodbye, and retreating back to where they came from.

"Thanks again Clary," Jace called. "Nice meeting you!"

I nodded before shutting the door firmly and sliding the lock into place. Even from behind my little barrier I could hear Max telling Jace all about how dried up my backyard was. "It was like the Sahara desert, Jace! I don't think they ever water it."

"Shh!" Jace snapped at him.

Once their voices faded with time, I turned around and leaned against the door, suddenly exhausted. People were strange, strange, _strange _creations.

* * *

**Again, nothing really happens in this chapter. At least you get to meet Jace, though, right? Hopefully it wasn't beyond boring, but next chapter is when things start to get interesting (THE POWER GOES OUT!)**

**Clary won't be a bitch for long and I actually really like how she get close to Jace; you'll just have to wait and see what I mean until next chapter(;**

**Please review!**

**Until next time, peace.**

* * *

_**Will edit soon.**_


End file.
